HEAVEN & HELL
by EDZEL2
Summary: My name is Lucy Saxon and this is my story....


Heaven and Hell by Edzel

July 6, 2008

**Heaven and Hell by Edzel**

**Heaven and Hell** by Edzel

Foreword

My name is Lucy Saxon and this is my story. To you, my unknown reader, I can only say that whatever your opinion of me before you read this, I hope that you might think differently by the time you reach the end; and if there is anyone left alive on Earth_** to**_ read it. Perhaps you will all be far too busy rebuilding your shattered lives to have either the time or inclination to read my pitiful tale.

But, if you _are_ prepared to read to the bitter end, then thank you. And good luck.

Part One - Heaven

I first met Harold Saxon when I worked for the publishing house Turner, Cole and Broughton. They specialised in autobiographies, biographies and so forth of the rich and famous politicos of which this world has (or had) rather too many in my opinion. Let me speak plainly – as the daughter of Lord Cole and having attended Roedean, I was neither naive nor impressionable. I was also and am still not, as the Saxon website blurb attests, a political person at all. So when I was assigned to work with Harold Saxon on his autobiography I saw it as simply another job - albeit one that I would do well and to the best of my ability. But I certainly wasn't about to be overly impressed – politicians are in my experience invariably dull, self-important and often overweight. They are generally not particularly good-looking and are only interested in pursuing their goals of power, money and the good life; all the while disguising it as being "in the public interest".

I had of course heard of Mr. Saxon. Who hadn't? His was by all accounts a pretty traditional upbringing – Public School, private industry success with the Archangel Phone network, Minster for Defence with a central role in designing U.N.I.T.'s flagship, Valiant... and now running for Prime Minister - all before his fortieth birthday. Had I been the type of girl to be impressed by such success, I suppose I would have been rather excited at the prospect of working with Britain's most eligible up and coming politician. But as I've said, I wasn't about to fall at his feet.

So I was not particularly looking forward to my first appointment with Mr Saxon. But I pride myself on being nothing if not professional; so I made sure to present myself at his campaign offices a little early, grimly determined to get the job done as quickly as possible. How much could the man have to write about, anyway – at his age, it would hardly be a massive tome... I thought it likely to run at under 500 pages, and would probably need significant padding.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I was met with the man himself, striding across the lobby to greet me. I was shocked – this in itself was rather unusual. Generally, politicians like to keep one waiting and will then have you ushered in as if they could barely spare the time for something as trivial as a self aggrandising autobiography.

He seemed much younger in the flesh; fresher faced and altogether more personable than the facade displayed to the public. As a rule I don't watch much television so I hadn't yet seen his Archangel promotional campaign (which had most of the junior staff - male and female alike - ooh-ing and aah-ing ) and although I had of course seen the posters on the underground, they were still just so much background to my busy life, to be honest. I was probably one of the few people in the company -and in the country- who wasn't subscribing to Archangel at that point.

The man in the flesh was... well to be completely honest with you, he made me feel like the only woman in the world as he shook my hand, bade me call him Harry. As he regarded me with warm brown eyes that seemed to bore right into me, my stomach lurched – first, inexplicably, with icy fear, and then, within a heartbeat, I felt breathless with desire. This was not at all what I'd been expecting, and it took me a few moments to recover my composure, as you might imagine.

Still somewhat speechless I was ushered -by his hand on the small of my back- into his office. Try as I might, to this day I couldn't tell you what we talked about or how much progress was made on the autobiography. Truth be told, I can recall little or nothing of _any_ of the appointments which followed the first - but we must have worked hard because the book was written, edited, proof-read, printed and distributed to publishers in record time. Its release coincided with the start of the election campaign. I seem to recall voices of dissent from the other political parties over campaign budgets and the like; but the opposition seemed to melt away in the face of Harry Saxon's charm offensive. The other contenders faded into the background, like static. They became irritating, but of no real consequence.

What I do acutely remember, coming to myself as I left that first meeting, is that the world suddenly began to seem a far safer place with Harry Saxon's ideals and aims ringing in my ears. Suddenly I seemed to see his face everywhere – the campaign posters and Archangel Network hoardings shone out at me from every bus, tube, and electronics store window... before I had gone more than a few yards, I found myself in a shop purchasing an Archangel package, and impatient to get home so that I could get it all set up. Somehow, having a mobile on the Archangel network made me feel as though I had a little piece of Harry right there in my hand, always with me, always reassuring. What caused this sudden about face I could not have told you at the time, though of course now I know only too well the true cause of it.

Harry Saxon's election campaign continued apace, with website chat rooms, television appearances, charity balls, and so on. Ordinarily, I would not have cared much for such events (having endured more than my fair share during my Season) but somewhere along the way, Harry and I seemed to have become an item so I experienced them all at his side... not to mention the evenings at the opera, the after dinner speeches, numerous rock concerts. Harry's taste were wide and varied – and unlike many politicians at that level, he seemed to retain a childish sense of fun quite at odds with his earnest political personality. At times it was hard to reconcile the smooth politician with the carefree young man who cheered and whistled appreciation at a Rolling Stones gig. But my personal favourites were the candlelit suppers, when it would be just the two of us. I remember feeling rather as if, to use a very old-fashioned term, I were being courted. When I said as much to my father, he smiled and said that some traditions were worth keeping - he thoroughly approved of Harry, so when the inevitable happened and Harry proposed, it was champagne all round. I felt as if my life were playing out just like a fairytale or perhaps a dream – there seemed to be an element of unreality about it all. But whenever I found myself pondering over the strangeness and suddenness of it all, Harry seemed to appear as if by magic and any doubts that might be surfacing suddenly seemed ridiculous. The fact that he seemed to have no family to speak of was never remarked upon and the tabloid press, normally so swift to sniff out inconsistencies in the lives of public figures, seemed uninterested in Harry's personal background. It should have been odd, but somehow wasn't. We all accepted him for what he appeared to be. He was the housewive's favourite and even the young men overseeing the renovation of what was to be our weekend retreat were heard to say "That Saxon bloke - he's alright, I reckon."

The wedding went without a hitch. I as the bride naturally wore white. Harry was ever the gentleman so our wedding night was the first time Harry and I had actually spent the whole night together. Although... I had the niggling feeling that it wasn't. But I couldn't have said when we might have been together previously. There was a memory at the edge of my mind which, try as I might to grasp it, slipped away from me each time I got anywhere near. In the end I gave up trying and just accepted things as they were.

I vividly remember one occasion when Harry had gone on a final "meet and greet" tour of the country, leaving on the day after we returned from our honeymoon. (Try as I might, I still can't recall where we went, although I know it was somewhere blissfully warm and sunny and quite unlike cold, dreary England at that time of year)

I had been unable to accompany him as I had fallen ill during the journey home with a terrible stomach bug, which kept me awake all night. Harry, as usual, seemed to need very little sleep and was his usual hale and hearty self - but it was clear to me that he didn't think having a sick and pasty-looking wife by his side would do his image much good, although of course he didn't phrase it quite like that. So I stayed behind, feeling sick and sorry for myself, while he flew to the first of his engagements.

I remember that each time I awoke from a nap and as my stomach gradually settled, a strange edginess seemed to come over me. As a student I had of course experimented with what my father liked to call "illegal substances" and found the whole scene not much to my liking at all. I was bemused to realise that what I was feeling now seemed unaccountably like withdrawal symptoms; I had seen a friend from University suffer terribly, and never forgot the warning. But what could I be withdrawing _from_? I hadn't done anything of that sort since my student days. As the day wore on, I remember a feeling that I could only describe as a kind of creeping terror – as though there were memories of something dreadful happening to me that I should remember but simply couldn't. I began to think I was losing my mind and longed to be back at home in my father's house, tucked up in my old bedroom with its memories of childhood security and laughter. It was only when Harry rang me that evening to enquire after my health that the dreadful feeling began to recede. The sound of his voice brought such sudden and utter relief from the discomfort that had steadily grown worse since he left me that morning. I realised how much I had come to depend on his presence in my day to day life. When I stopped to think, it seemed to me that we had hardly been apart since that first meeting... although we must have been, mustn't we? As Harry and I talked, even the memory of how ill I'd been feeling seemed to dissipate. I didn't even really register quite how strange that was at the time – it's only now, thinking back on it, that it all seems so blindingly obvious. How could I not have seen? How could we all have failed to realise what was happening to us...?

As you know, Harold – my Harry – went on to win the election with a landslide victory. It seemed that Britain was about to enter a golden age. After the results were announced, and as Harry and I went in front of the cameras as "The Prime Minister and His Wife" for the first time, little was I to know that pretty soon, all hell was about to break loose.

Part Two - Hell

The first real inkling I had that all was not as it should be, and that even I in what I now know to be my semi-hypnotised state could not ignore, happened that same day. Harry returned from his first cabinet meeting barely an hour after leaving me. I had expected him to be in session for hours; well into the night, even, as he and his new cabinet got down to the business of government. But no - he was back within the hour, and was in the strangest of moods. He seemed tense, over-wound, almost 'hyper', in fact. I had never seen him like this before and did not know quite what to make of it.

He came rushing into the apartment at Number 10, dismissed the staff with an abrupt "Leave us now", and grabbing me by the hand, practically dragged me into the bedroom. Slamming the door shut behind us, he leaned back against it and laughed in a manner that I can only describe as manic. He seemed to be, and I don't know how else to describe it, consumed with glee – almost like a naughty child. It was an uncomfortable sight and my feelings must have shown on my face because he suddenly stopped laughing.

Grabbing my hand again, he led me to the bed where he sat me down, then pushed me flat on my back. I was astonished; torn between bewilderment at his strange mood and laughter that he would even think of leaving the very serious business of government to bed his wife! He flung himself across me; grabbing my hands and putting them behind my head he kissed me with none of his usual tenderness, but with violence. It was so unlike him that I started to struggle, which seemed to excite him more. He growled, pushing my dress up with one hand, and ground himself against me - I could be in no doubt about his state of arousal. When he finally pulled away from the kiss, I managed to draw breath enough to speak.

"Harry! Calm down! You're frightening me!" Although in truth I _was_ a little scared, I was also becoming aroused. This was a side to Harry I had not experienced before. Or – something niggled in the depths of my memory – had I? The thought was gone before it could surface. I didn't know whether to laugh or feel afraid.

Harry regarded me with glittering eyes. He was breathless and sweating, an edge of desperation in his voice. . "Aah, Lucy, the power of government – doesn't it just make you want ..." releasing my hands, he began fumbling with the zip on his trousers.

"Harry –" but before I could say any more his mouth covered mine, and for a while I stopped thinking about anything very much at all.

Afterwards, when we were lying sated and sweating, Harry told me that he had just murdered the entire cabinet. Calmly, just like that, as if he were discussing a normal day at the office. I didn't believe him, of course. "Harry, don't be silly!" So, still in our rumpled and sweat-soaked clothes, he took me by the hand to the cabinet office and flung open the door, leading me in as if he had something to show me that he was proud of. "Look, Lucy – there they all are!"

The stench of death was overwhelming in the centrally heated room, and I retched. The sight of those poor men, faces frozen in the pain of their death throes was ghastly, and I turned to Harry in horror. "Harry – what have you _done_? Did you really do this? But for God's sake, why would you do such a terrible thing? Why?" I burst into tears. This was just too awful. I swallowed bile.

"Harry, how –why- did you do this?"

To my utter astonishment, Harry was walking slowly around the room, pushing each corpse with his foot, a sneering expression on his face.

"Poison gas, of course, my sweet!" and he dangled a gas mask in front of my face. I flinched.

"Of course, I had to protect myself. You should have seen their faces! Bloody fools, they deserved it. Every last one of them!"

This jovial callousness was just too much and I threw up, right in the middle of the room. Oh God, this was dreadful. What the hell was going on? Suddenly it was as if the dreamlike quality of the past few months had been shattered; here was real life and cold cruel madness, grinning insanely at me. My husband. The Prime Minister of Great Britain. My darling Harry, a murderer. My head was suddenly swimming; my ears began to ring and my vision darkened. I could hear Harry's voice as if from a long way away, and felt his arms around me as I fell.

I came to in Harry's arms as he was carrying me back to our bedroom. I felt dizzy, disorientated and vaguely afraid, and could not for a moment remember why. Then it all came flooding back and I started to struggle. Harry's grip was vice-like, and I had the sudden terrible thought that now I knew what he'd done, he might kill me, too. I sobbed helplessly. At this point I was simply afraid – the anger would come later.

"Ssshh, ssshhh, it'll be alright, Lucy. I know it's a terrible shock to you, but I _did_ explain it all to you before – you just don't remember, do you? You humans have such fragile minds... you forget far more than you remember. Such a waste. What _does_ he see in you, I wonder?"

Little of this made any sense to me at all – what, and when, had he already explained?? And why call me a Human? What did he mean by that, almost as if - no! Don't be ridiculous, Lucy! And who was "he"? I felt totally confused. Had I gone mad? It seemed the most likely explanation at that point.

I don't remember what happened when we got back to the bedroom; I think I may have passed out again. So many days are a blank to me, now I come to think of it. I now know that I had "lost" a great deal of the time between first meeting Harry and ... now. I have snatches of memories – for some of them I know I was present; others are like half-remembered nightmares.

I remember now the journalist who tried to warn me about Harry, and who for her trouble was horribly murdered by those strange creatures that Harry seemed to control, the Toclafane. It seems insane now, but I can recall that as she was talking, part of me was hearing this for the first time; but on another level, I knew that it was all true, but I didn't care. I was worried that Harry would be exposed and stopped before he could complete... whatever it was he was intending to do. Whatever it was, it was clear that I was an accomplice, and happy to be so.

The next clear memory I have is when we were on the Valiant and President Elect Winters had been vaporised by those horrifying creatures. I have a memory, several memories in fact, of Harry insisting that I call him The Master. Every time I called him Harry when he was in one of his "I am the Master" moods, he would beat me.

He insisted I wear beautiful and delicate dresses all the time, without underwear, so that he could take me whenever he felt the urge. Which was often; I felt more like a concubine than a wife. When I was too bruised, or could not be roused no matter how much he tried to will it, he would take a pretty young girl from somewhere, and use her. What happened to them afterwards I never knew, and could not afford to care. He always came back to me, and much as I feared him, I also needed him in equal measure. I didn't understand why I couldn't break away, although I know now that he had some kind of hypnotic hold over me.

He seemed alternatively enraged by and drawn to someone he called "The Doctor" and I eventually came to realise that Harry and this 'Doctor' had a long and shared history. When Harry finally captured the Doctor and his friends, his mania often seemed to overwhelm him. He would gloat over them, torture them, and then rape me –sometimes in front of them. I learned not to care, to pretend to myself that we were alone together – to do otherwise was impossible. The first time I made the mistake of protesting, I thought he would kill me in his rage. My throat bore the bruises for weeks afterward.

He seemed intent on humiliating anyone on a whim. At other times he would be overcome with the headaches that plagued him so much, which he called "the drums", and would groan and weep with the pain of it. During those attacks, I would see a glimpse of the Harry I used to know. Pity would take over and I would soothe him until they passed.

He seemed not to remember my kindness afterwards, although he often boasted about me, his "faithful and wonderful companion" to his staff and other prisoners. At first his staff appeared to do his bidding willingly, and I hated them for it. In time I began to see that they were hardly much better off than the prisoners they captured and killed at Harry's bidding. They did what was necessary to survive, much as I was doing.

At times it seemed as if Harry tried to justify his actions; but of course he could never do that because some things can _never_ be justified. Sometimes, even in his madness, I think he realised this and the anguish it must have given him caused another poor soul to suffer. Often it was me, sometimes it was the sad-eyed Doctor, or his handsome friend Jack, who for some reason I couldn't fathom, simply couldn't die. I remember thinking what a terrible curse that must be. Many times during that long year I'd prayed for death. Then I'd realise that there would be no more Harry; and in spite of myself and everything he'd done, I knew I needed him. I liked to think he needed me, but I'm not sure if that' was ever true once he became Prime Minister.

The day Harry somehow opened the skies and more of his "children" came down and started killing, killing, killing, was, I think, the day I finally realised that Harry was not really Harry and in fact had never really been Harry at all. Whoever or whatever he was, he was quite, quite, mad; I also came to realise that sometimes, when his influence over me was at its strongest, that I was mad too. I can remember dancing with delight on the bridge of the Valiant when the 'children' poured out of the tear in the sky, simply because Harry willed it. I felt like a puppet, with no free will of my own – if Harry had said "dance while your people die", I'd dance – and in fact that's what I did. If he had told me to kill someone, I have no doubt that I would have done it. May even have done so, although I have no clear memory of it. I think that may be my mind's way of protecting me, or my sanity – not that I feel I have much of that left now.

If only we could turn the clock back. Oh, but we did, didn't we – or rather , the Doctor did – so perhaps you, my unknown reader, are not struggling for survival at all, but are living out your life quite happily unaware of all the dreadful things that happened, or rather didn't happen.

I think something dreadful happened to Harry – I think someone killed him, because suddenly there he was, dead; blood on his shirt and stunned looks all round. Strangely the Doctor -whom Harry had treated so dreadfully- was terribly upset; they had to drag him away from Harry's body. Everyone was very nice to me, which is odd, because sometimes I think I might have been the one who killed him, and its wrong to kill, isn't it... But every time I try to remember, my mind skitters away from the thought, so I can't tell if its a real memory or one of those pretend memories that Harry planted in people's minds with his Archangel network.

The staff here are all very kind to me – they say that I've been ill and that I should write everything down if it helps. Or I can talk to someone. I find it hard to talk – when I try to speak of the things that happened, they sound mad, and the words just dry up. But writing it down is easier – I can stop when I feel overwhelmed, and come back to it when I feel stronger.

As far as I'm concerned, everything I've written about here _did_ happen – the parts I can't remember too well, obviously I can't be sure of - but I felt that I should include what I could remember as best I could; and you can judge for yourself what may or may not be true.

So, although you may or may not believe that these things really happened, I would like to think that you as a reader could say, well if they did, Lucy Cole, you are forgiven. Because that's all I really want – to be forgiven for the terrible things I allowed to happen. It doesn't matter that perhaps I couldn't have stopped any of it; the important thing is that I didn't even try. I need forgiveness and I need to have 'my' Harry back. I still have his ring; the ring he promised would be mine if anything ever happened to him. It's not Harry, but it's a part of him and for that reason alone, it's very precious to me. Why? I really couldn't say, except that Harry willed it.

The End (or is it?)


End file.
